Parting Gifts
by Cosmic Mewtwo
Summary: It's hard moving through this house every day, this house that is still full of you even when you're not here.  - Post-Cell games; Chi-Chi's POV


Imagine my horror when my newborn baby boy was handed to me after a long and painful birth, only to find that I was staring into the face of someone else entirely. The wide, black eyes, the unruly hair—already in spikes, if you'd believe it—it wasn't what I had expected. He looked nothing like me, or even his brother, for that matter.

His face belonged solely to his father, the dead man who had broken my heart.

The tears were streaming down my cheeks before I could stop them, and the nurses all cooed like I was crying with motherly joy. I let them believe that, and I cradled Goten against me and whispered "It's a boy," because if I hadn't said something, _anything, _I wouldn't have been able to stop the sobbing.

Goten's healthy, newborn wails were a welcome distraction then, along with the doctor interrupting the moment to ask what I wished to be done about "that _tail._" I quietly informed him it to remove it later. For safety, of course.

And maybe because the last thing I needed was another reminder of my Saiyan husband.

It hasn't been long since then, since I gave birth to my newest little guy and brought him home—at least I don't think so, but the days have just been...blurring together. They've been blurring together for a long time, actually. If it weren't for the weekends when Gohan doesn't have school, I'm ashamed to say that I don't think I'd be able to keep track of the days of the week anymore.

In some ways, I couldn't be happier about having Goten—it's nice to have someone to care for, to have someone to focus on raising and teaching, and maybe I'll even make an effort to train this one since the 'warrior of the house' isn't here to do it. And maybe a little brother will be just the thing for Gohan. I really hope so—he hasn't been himself lately, and I can never tell if it's just the growing pains of Saiyan adolescence, or if he really hasn't adjusted to his father's death as well I've hoped. I've tried pushing him less and less, even letting him train with Piccolo every few evenings, and I've even asked Bulma if Vegeta knows a damn thing about teenage Saiyans. What else can I _do_?

But... Gohan's at school right now, and the house is quieter than I'd like. Even Goten doesn't fuss much—he's a heavy sleeper (like daddy, _of course_), and usually content to quietly chew on whatever toy he can get his pudgy hands on. I guess I should feel lucky.

When I first brought him home, I used to just stand over his cradle and watch him, baffled. Was it possible for a baby to look that much like one parent? At first I thought it was my long-held grief just superimposing itself on the newborn, that maybe I had held onto the pain and loss for so long that I couldn't even see my own baby properly anymore. But when Bulma insisted that I bring the baby over to show everybody, their gushing confirmed it; even Vegeta spoke up just to comment on how much Goten looked "just like Kakarrot."

As if you hadn't found enough ways to haunt me already, Goku.

It's hard moving through this house every day, this house that is still _full _of you even when you're not here. It's a house whose walls are full of old photos of your smiling face, with rooms that still _smell _like you, with closets full of your training clothes and old boots, and home to a son who worships you so much that sometimes at the dinner table he'll wonder aloud what you could you be up to in the Otherworld today.

Whatever it is, it's more important than being a husband and father, apparently.

I'm sorry. That sounded bitter, didn't it? I try not to think like this, but it's hard not to when your husband chooses to abandon you and your family in favour of embarking on some half-brained adventure in the afterlife. Was it really so selfish for me to want my husband to be wished back?

I never understood your excuse, Goku, and I never will—you being alive was never going to be a threat to the Earth, _how could you even think that_? If any monster just like all the others came along (and do you _really_ believe Cell was the last?) this world will be more vulnerable without you than it's ever been before.

Do you really expect Gohan to fight another battle like that for you again?

He's never been a true warrior like you, Goku, and I know I was never able to show you that.

But don't worry. I never say these kinds of things, never aloud. I want Gohan to think nothing but the best of you, and I hope that Goten will come to know just what kind of hero you were, too. Because you were a good man, Goku, and I'll be happy if our sons can grow up to be something like you.

I'd just be happier if you were here.

I'm not sad every day, though, don't worry about that—today it just happens to be hitting harder than it has in awhile. Much harder. The pain, I've found, is like a slow tide, ebbing away to numbness for days, only to rise again in a stinging swell, filling my chest until it hurts to breathe.

Today... today is one of those days.

I haven't felt the pain quite this sharply in a long time, not since the day I first found out I was pregnant. I still remember that moment of brutal numbness when I tossed the plastic tab from the drug store away, as I walked into the kitchen without seeing and told Gohan to take the weekend off studying, insisting that he go visit Dende or Piccolo. He was too ecstatic to question it, and I was left in peace to curl up in my bed to cry and wail until I thought the walls might shake—honestly, if I were a Saiyan like you, Goku, I think I might have gone blonde that day.

But I didn't.

I only wept until I felt weak from the sobbing, until my head throbbed with a dull ache that was barely noticeable beneath everything else that hurt. I couldn't believe then that you had left me with child, like a cruel parting gift passed to me as you waved goodbye from the next dimension.

I try not to remember that kind of pain, but I can't help it today. It came on fast and hard—unexpected as always—while I was bringing the laundry in from outside. This time, I think it was the photo hanging near the front door that triggered it. You know the one? The one with you and Gohan on his eleventh birthday, taken while Gohan was opening his gifts—you two were sitting side by side, your smiles shining just as bright your inhumanly blue eyes and matching golden hair.

It's a strange photo from strange times. You two were like that the whole nine days leading up to the Cell games, and I'd be lying if I said your Super Saiyan form hadn't unsettled me.

But you understood that.

That's why the night before the unspeakable day itself, you let the form slip once—just once. It was long enough for our last time together, and you gave me a final chance to tangle my hands in your black hair as you took me, and I thank you for that one kindness.

I wish it hadn't made the next morning even harder when you left without promise or goodbye.

This is what happens every time I'm reminded of you—one good memory toppling into a bad one, and then another, like a line of dominoes. I hate it, I hate feeling like this, and I hate what you've done. I hate how my memories of you have become twisted and suffocating, that just the thought of you and what you've abandoned me with can bring me to my knees and ruin my day in an instant.

I look at the photo on the wall, taunted by your radiant smile, and the ache starts in my chest. It always starts there, and this time it builds and spreads until my mind is clouded and I could swear I'm literally seeing red, and my hands shake until I drop the basket of laundry I've brought in. I don't see through my tears as the clothes spill across the floor, I just leave them there and start walking to my bedroom—_our_ bedroom—blind to what I'm even doing when I get there. I sweep across the floor, the tears finally burning streams down my cheeks now, and throw open the closet door, as if I somehow expect to find that you've been hiding there all along.

_Of course you aren't_, but what I do find infuriates me even more. Between my rows of dresses hanging before me, I see the blinding orange of a single gi wedged in between the rest of my clothes. I sob at the sight of it, pulling it off its hanger, and I find myself weeping harder than even before.

It still smells like you. It still smells _just like you_, and the pain in my chest pounds harder. I think that's why I've held onto it when I've thrown so many other things away—at my weakest, I've been able to bury my face in its orange folds, and the memories entwined with your scent are so strong that it's almost like embracing _you _again. But this time I find no strength or reassurance—just a deepening of the emptiness you left behind.

My vision is blurring again with tears as I clutch the gi, and I turn to the set of drawers on the other side of the room. My lungs burn from the heavy sobbing, but I barely notice as I pull open the top drawer, a single task set in my mind, controlling my movements like some outside force.

I know exactly what I'm about to do as I pull out a pair of scissors, but some part of me is horrified all the same.

Tears roll off my face and to the floor, and I follow downward, gi clutched in one hand and the scissors in the other. My hands shake from my steady weeping as I hold your gi against the floor.

I begin to slash into the material.

Every cut I make is like a painful gasp of air after drowning. Even though I'm crying harder with every cut of the scissors, I feel like something is slipping, that I'm finally letting go of something I shouldn't have been holding onto in the first place.

Eventually I drop the scissors. They're not enough. I begin to rip what's left of your gi apart with my hands, watching in mixed horror and blessed release as I shred the garment into ragged strips with my own shaking fingers.

_Forgive me, Goku._

I have to do this. I have to destroy what's made me so weak. I can't keep letting your memory fester like an open wound.

_Please forgive me._

I feel stronger with each shred I tear off the gi. I need this, I've needed this all along. I need to be strong again, Goku. For our sons, if not myself. I can't go on remembering you with nothing but misery and darkness.

_I love you so much, Goku. Didn't you know that?_

_I'm just so tired of hating you, too._

Your gi is unrecognizable now, a pile of orange rags on the floor and orange strips falling through my fingers. I'm breathing raggedly, the sobs slowly ebbing. Everything is suddenly... clearer. For once, the pain is pulling away, but not because of the numbness that always comes to take its place. The tears stop streaming and my eyes stop burning.

Something still aches, but for once it's crisp and clear and I don't feel so heavy anymore.

I'm able to just breathe in the silence now that I've stopped crying, but I realize that the house isn't so silent after all. Goten. My own childish wailing must have woken him up, because now he's crying from the next room. I feel my cheeks flush with guilt—of course I woke the baby, I must have woken the entire country the way I was carrying on.

Quickly, I push the pile of orange rags that used to be a gi back into the closet, to be thrown away later. I step out of the bedroom just as I hear the front door creaking open.

"Mom?"

I turn and see Gohan stepping across the threshold, and realize how his home must look—his mother, red-eyed and disheveled, the laundry spilled all over the floor, a baby wailing down the hall. Kami, is it so late in the afternoon already? Why couldn't he have gone to see Piccolo today?

"Gohan," I say, my voice hoarser than I expected. "You're—you're home already. How was school?"

"Fine."

He blinks, slowly.

"Are you ok, mom?"

"Just fine, sweetheart. I just dropped the laundry all over the floor, I don't know _where _ my head is today. Could you pick it up for me? It sounds like I woke up your brother."

"Yeah, no problem, mom."

I brush down the front of my dress, regaining my composure, and turn to follow the sound of Goten's cries. I don't want Gohan to see how upset I've been. How can I expect him to be strong if I can't keep it together myself?

"Mom, are you sure you're okay?"

I turn again to face him, and my heart aches for his concern. My heart always aches for him, this beautiful young boy who has done nothing to deserve the cruelty and hardship the universe so readily offers up to him. A young boy who had to watch his own father die at the hands of a monster he had to battle alone.

How has he remained so _pure_?

_He may not be a born warrior, but he's definitely your son, Goku._

I feel myself smiling, and for once it isn't forced for anyone's sake. It comes naturally, with a warmth I had nearly forgotten.

_Through and through._

"I'm fine, Gohan," I say, reaching out to brush his dark, Saiyan bangs from out of his eyes. "Just perfect, in fact."

His face lights up in a way that only his can, and he smiles back.

His smile looks just like Goku's.


End file.
